


A Day for Maybes

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: EXTRA FLUFFY CUTENESS, M/M, Warning: Too much Butter Pecan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:44:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade and Dimmock take a walk through Hyde Park on a lunch break, and stop for some ice cream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day for Maybes

Summer rarely struck early — but when it did, it was fierce. An intense heat wave rolled through the city, and no one stepped outside unless they had to, or if they liked it, or — in special cases — if they were just strangely adventurous. 

Greg unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves as they walked. He’d rather have been in shorts, cleats and a football jersey, but work didn’t stop for the summer, and it certainly didn’t stop for him to play games. Still, a walk in the park on a lunch hour was a good enough way to pass the time. 

More so because that time included a certain younger detective that he’d grown terribly fond of in recent days. Or maybe months? He wasn’t entirely sure when it’d happened, but he’d come to terms with it now. His mother would have said it was the summer breeze — such a tricky thing. It blows in one month, leaves you spinning, and then tears back out again with you all topsy-turvy and left behind. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was the summer. 

But maybe it wasn’t.

Either way, he wasn’t the type to go doe-eyed at the prospect of a summer boy — once upon a time, perhaps, but not any more. Now he was content with what he had, and what he had was a lovely man at his side, and a walk in the park in the pretty sunshine. 

“Fancy some ice cream?” He asked, glancing at Iain, who’d been idling along beside him with his hands in his pockets and not a care in the world. 

Iain looked up. “Sure, why not?” He shrugged. They’d passed nearly a dozen curbside trolleys since they’d started, and there were a dozen more to come if they kept at it. And sure enough they found one not so far off. 

Iain ordered a single scoop of the richest chocolate imaginable — he always did. Greg smiled at him as the other DI exchanged a handful of coins for a cone, and then stepped back. He could have gotten Greg’s too — he knew exactly what the other man wanted. 

“Two scoops of butter pecan, if you’ve got it.” 

And of course he did — no self-respecting ice cream vendor went without any perfect butter pecan. Aside from the staples — vanilla, chocolate and strawberry — butter pecan and mint chocolate chip were the king and queen of all ice cream, and Greg loved it. 

Greg loved a lot of silly things, Iain had noticed. 

They stopped at a bench in the shade and lapped and slurped, struggling to keep up as the sun melted their midday desserts right through their fingers. Iain had leaned forward, ice cream held out in front of him in an effort to keep dripping chocolate away from a clean white shirt, or his trousers. Greg only laughed as he watched, leisurely enjoying his own soupy mess. 

Greg never seemed to lose that particular race — tongue versus the sun. Iain imagined he knew why, but the very thought brought a faint red shine to his cheeks and a smile to his face. Maybe Greg just had a trick to keeping it from sloshing all over his hands. He seemed to know a lot of useful things like that. 

Or maybe the sun just wasn’t any match for Greg Lestrade.

Either way, it was certainly quite the day for maybes.

“You’re gettin’ it on your cuff there,” Greg warned, eyeing the sleeve of Dimmock’s shirt. 

The younger man quickly rolled his wrist, mindful of the ice cream already dripping down his hand and swore quietly as he realised Greg was right. He switched hands and tried to lick the other one clean, but the ice cream had already beaten him. It was everywhere, and there was nothing for it.

“Told you to get vanilla.”

“Vanilla’s not as good as chocolate.”

“But nobody notices vanilla.”

Iain arched an eyebrow. “Oh, is that your trick, then?”

“Trick?” 

“Get ice cream the same colour as your clothes, and hope no one’ll notice when it gets on everything.” 

Greg snorted. 

“Come off it. You never drop any.” 

“Because I don’t wait for it to melt all over me.” 

“I was hardly waiting,” Iain retorted. 

The older DI smiled. “Besides, you can’t miss a huge glob of ice cream all down your front, no matter what colour it is.” 

“I bet you can.” 

Greg paused and looked at him. Properly looked, mind, because Greg Lestrade had a habit of not being overly affectionate in public — and that included too much staring at his significant other. It just didn’t seem necessary, when he could be as baleful and doting as he wanted in the privacy of his own home.

“What?” Dimmock asked, slightly surprised. 

Greg smushed the remainder of his ice cream in the younger man’s face. Iain’s mouth fell open, eyes closed tight as the cold, sugary mess dripped down his nose and puddled in his lap. When it had all slipped out of the cone, Greg turned it upright and set it on Iain’s head, like a birthday cap, before leaning back to survey his handiwork and lick a fleck of ice cream from his thumb. “Looks good on you,” he added, as he let his gaze wander back to the park. 

Iain was too shocked to respond. He’d dropped his own ice cream on his shoe. 

“Think you can walk it off?” Greg asked, smirking devilishly. “I’m sure no one will notice.” 

Iain stuttered and utterly failed to formulate a reply. 

“Yeah, I doubt it, too. Guess we ought to get you home, then.” 

He stood up, and turned to offer the extremely messy younger man a hand. Iain looked up at him. Greg winked. 

And that one wink was all it took. Iain scooped up a handful of the sugary slop and lobbed it straight at the grey-haired detective’s head. 

He didn’t miss. 

“Oi!” 

It took them an hour to get home. Not a single cab would take them, and they couldn’t really blame them. They’d left enough sticky handprints on each other — they didn’t need to ruin a car, too. 

But in that hour, or rather — from the time they’d left Scotland Yard to start their walk, and the time they stepped through the front door of Greg’s flat (or slipped, in Iain’s case, on account of his chocolatey shoes), they’d both come down with a mysterious illness that prevented either of them from returning to work.

Maybe it was the flu, they’d said when Sally asked. They had chills, after all. Maybe a hot bath was in order.

Or maybe it was just a summer fever.


End file.
